


catastrophic

by sansbanshees



Series: know that what we had was real [3]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Ridiculousness, i am ashamed, solas vs a cat, this story has a sad lack of dog vs cat puns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-13
Updated: 2016-08-13
Packaged: 2018-08-08 10:53:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7754908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sansbanshees/pseuds/sansbanshees
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Inquisitor's cat does not care for Solas.</p><p>Not one bit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	catastrophic

Her cat does not care for him.

No.

That is inaccurate.

It is not _her_ cat, merely _a_ cat, one allowed the run of her rooms under the guise of clearing out mice. She claims no ownership of the creature, nor does she seek to. It is a tool, she maintains, a practical necessity with a worthwhile benefit. And it performs its duties admirably, this cat that is not hers, its mousing unparalleled.

It loathes him.

“What do you mean it doesn’t like you?” his heart asks when he points out the truth she appears blind to after she asks him to retrieve it from the drawer it is currently stuck in. “Why would it not?”

Solas does not beleaguer the point with an answer. It is not worth the effort it would take to convince her, and his time with her is better spent on other things—they have so little of it as it is. He simply sighs and crosses the room to open the drawer that jerks and shakes as the cries within it grow louder, wary of the claws that will no doubt seek to rend the flesh from his hands the moment he frees it.

He opens the drawer. The cat’s head jerks up, its pupils narrowing to thin slits as it takes in the sight of its rescuer.

“Go on,” he tells it, hoping his voice is level enough to be calming. “You are free.”

It leaps from the drawer with a graceless clamor, claws scraping for purchase as it skids across the floor and races out of sight.

“See? It’s fine,” Evelyn says, her arms slipping around his waist to draw him close as she presses her cheek to his back.

“Fine,” he echoes with wry amusement, shaking his head. “That is not the word that I would use.”

He feels her tense, as if she is trying not to laugh. “Well, _I_ like you,” she informs him, her voice failing to hide the smile he knows she is wearing.

The affection he feels for her is second only to the love he does not dare speak of out loud. “I am fond of you as well,” he tells her, relaxing into her embrace. It is the only admission safe enough to make, and even that is undoubtedly too far.

“Lucky me,” she says, amusement shifting into something altogether headier.

And then her hand slips into his breeches and he forgets that cats exist at all, let alone the one that does and does not belong to her.

* * *

                                                                                

The room is quiet when Solas wakes. The bed is empty, save himself, the mussed sheets beside him still warm when he reaches to touch them. Evelyn cannot have left him long ago—the earthy scent of elfroot and mint that clings to her lingers on her pillows as well, still present enough to breathe in like the fool he is. It is an indulgence he can ill afford when all is said and done, but he can no more stop himself from doing it than he can stop his heart from beating.

He can imagine what took her away before the sun reached the horizon. He can picture the runner that knocked on her door. He can see her eyes snapping open, the wild dark tufts of her hair sticking up in all directions as she rolled out of bed. It is a difficult vision to find amusement in, knowing that he is the one that mussed it so thoroughly during the night.

She never wakes him when she leaves—or she does not _intend_ to. She lingers long enough drop a kiss wherever enough of his face is exposed and then she is gone—to the war room, he expects—matters both urgent and less so taking hold of her once more. He does not always wake when she rushes to dress, but sometimes—sometimes he does, allowing himself a selfish moment to observe what he can without disturbing her process.

It will not last much longer, what they have built together. One way or another, this will end. He will lose her. 

It is at the precise moment the thought crosses his mind that Solas hears the low growl beside his head.

He turns to face the source.

The cat glares at him, its tail swishing through the air. It is close, close enough to maim him, and there is little he can do to evade an assault should it choose to launch one.

“This is unnecessary, friend,” he tells it. “I am no threat to you.”

It cannot hurt to attempt reassurance. Solas has always found animals to be far more intelligent than they are given credit for. Some species more than others, of course, but exceptions do occur.

If it understands his words, it either does not believe them or does not care. It hisses, a long and drawn out sound accompanied by a baring of teeth.

Solas exhales slowly and lifts his gaze to the ceiling.

He will not be baited by this creature. He will _not_.

“I will grant you the room,” he says, sliding over to rise from the bed and find his clothes. “Not always. Not when she wants me here. But when she leaves, I will leave as well.”

Ceding ground has to be the solution. He can think of no other explanation for this behavior apart from a territorial dispute and that, at least, he can combat with concessions.

When he leaves, the cat does not give chase. It merely watches him go from its perch on the railing with an air of superiority typical of its kind.

* * *

                                                                        

Ceding ground is not the solution.

If anything, it only seems to suggest that he is the weaker creature and ripe for the picking because of it.

It swipes at him when he passes it by, darts out from beneath the bed to attack his ankles whenever he leaves it. It leaps onto his chest in the middle of the night only to bound off into the darkness once its mission of disrupting his sleep is complete. All this while Evelyn is otherwise engaged, her attention entrenched so deeply in her work that she fails to see any of it.

It is beginning to be mutual, this loathing.

* * *

                                                                

The cat’s antics are no longer confined to Evelyn’s rooms. Solas does not want to believe that it seeks him out, but Skyhold is large, large enough to avoid someone or something indefinitely by _accident_ , let alone purposely.

The cat finding its way to him in the rotunda does not feel accidental at all. It does not help that it widens its stance and arches its back as it stares him down from atop his desk with a growl, as if it means to keep him from the books and parchment beneath its feet.

As if it means to drive him out.

“You cannot be serious,” he says, even knowing that it very likely is. It is one thing to concede a space that is not his to dispute. It is another thing entirely to be chased out of his own domain. “Leave. Or I will make you leave.”

It bristles, its black fur rising as its ears flatten against its head. It makes no move to comply.

So be it.

Solas is no fool. He casts a barrier over himself before he moves an inch to retrieve the cat. When he scoops it up, it fights him immediately, twisting and straining in his arms as it yowls and hisses, its claws tearing through the fabric of his shirt.

He does not seek to soothe it, merely to remove it, so he walks to the door leading out towards Commander Cullen’s tower. He tucks the cat in against his side with one arm even as it continues to fight him and opens the door with the other, taking a single step outside before crouching to set the cat down on the ground.

“There is hunting aplenty in any of the towers behind you,” Solas advises, rising sternly despite the way it means to wither him with its gaze. “I suggest you seek less formidable prey to intimidate.”

It darts away with a furious growl.

* * *

                                                        

Twice more, it attempts to drive him from his study.

Twice more, it is unsuccessful.

It does not make a fourth attempt.

* * *

                                                

Evelyn has been gone for over a month, slogging through what Solas understands is miserable cold in Emprise du Lion.

He receives word of her impending return two days before she arrives. Her schedule and her whereabouts are not common knowledge–not even for him, should he go through official channels. Even correspondence addressed to him specifically is delayed by the Spymaster and her agents, but Solas has his own sources within the Inquisition’s ranks and his people report the news a full day before the letter Evelyn sent finds its way to his quarters.

He does not rush to greet her when she returns. He does not deviate from his usual habits in any way. She will have much to do from the moment she dismounts the ghoulish terror she calls her horse—there will be time for greetings later, when she is able to settle.

She finds him some time after the evening meal, and there is unmistakable mischief in her eyes.

“Hello,” she says, her wide mouth drawing back into a crooked smile. “I don’t suppose you’d care to escort me to my quarters? It’s just, I’m rather tired and I’m not certain I remember where they are.”

He chuckles. “And it was muscle memory, I suppose, that brought you to me? I am not convinced, vhenan.”

Evelyn raises her hands in surrender. “You caught me.” Her smile widens to a grin. “I was _hoping_ you might spare a moment to take me somewhere private and fuck me, but if you’re busy I can just take care of—“

“I am not—“ Solas interrupts, rather more ardently than he intends, “—busy.” He is—or he was—but the comparative study of veil measurements throughout Fereldan needn’t be finished tonight, not for the Inquisition and not for his own ends.

And he has missed her. Immensely. He is in no hurry to become any better acquainted with the feeling. Not this soon.

She grins at the slip of his composure. “Come on, then. It’s rude to keep a girl waiting.”

“Is it not equally rude,” he asks, turning away from his desk and backing her up to the wall nearest the door, his hand lifting to cradle her face, “to make such demands so early in a conversation?”

She leans her head into his touch, considering the question. “Is it?”

“It is,” he assures her, leaning in to brush his lips across hers and reveling in the feel of the smile that curves up beneath his mouth. “Not to mention unwise. Show your hand too early and you risk any advantage you might have had. Waiting for the right moment to present itself tends to yield more desirable results.”

“Are you disinclined to accept?” She lays a hand against his chest and grips his hip with the other, drawing him forward to press against her. “Have I lost my advantage?”

“No,” he admits, a faint smile forming in answer to hers. “You haven’t.”

“Then I must be doing something right.”

He could not agree more.

She leaves first and he follows soon after, cutting across the crowded hall to the door just behind the throne she sits for judgments. She is waiting for him when he gains the stairs, turned to face his arrival with a look of naked relief, her teasing set aside.

“I missed you,” she breathes.

Every reply he considers giving feels disingenuous. _Wrong_. So much less than she deserves and still more than he can possibly allow. So he does not answer her. Not with words. It is cowardice, this evasion, selfishness and foolishness that he should know better than to indulge in, but he cannot deny the pull of her when he takes her into his arms, when she sighs so sweetly into his mouth.

_Another_ _day_ , he tells himself. One more day of this, of her, and then—

And then.

It is an old lie by now, this bargain he strikes with himself, one he finds himself renewing every day. Tomorrow will be no different.

How they make it through her door so tangled up in one another, he is not certain, but it does not surprise him that they make it little further than that. She frees a single leg from her breeches and lets them hang carelessly from the other as she leaps up to wrap her legs around him. He braces her against the wall and fumbles with his own breeches, gets them down just enough, and then he is sinking into her, the ragged groan tearing its way from his throat overshadowed by the blissful noise she makes when he bottoms out inside of her. She seems to gasp and moan all at once, clinging to him as if she has no intention of ever releasing him and he wants—

He _wants_.

“Solas,” she whispers, her voice so soft, so quiet, yet ringing with certainty, “I love you.”

It is not the first time she has said it. He hopes it will not be the last, even knowing that it should be.

“ _Vhenan—_ “ There is no other word in either of their languages that encompasses what she is to him as fully, and even this seems to fall short. “Evelyn, I—“

It is also not the first time he has failed to return the sentiment explicitly, but she is merciful, his heart, and seals her lips over his to stifle the paltry words he meant to speak in lieu of truth, one more thing he cannot allow himself to tell her despite how desperately he feels it.

He moves in her slowly, deliberately, until she is writhing and shaking against him, her every breath catching and cracking with need. Why he looks away from the sight of her he will never know, but he does, his head dropping down to rest on her shoulder, turning towards the stairs leading up to her room and—

The cat. Is standing at the top of the stairs. Its eyes are set firmly on him, fur raised along its arched back, teeth bared. It makes no move to come any closer, let alone attack, but it seems only a matter of time. At the very least, it will not keep silent. It will fracture this moment with no regard for what it means.

_Let it try_ , he thinks. Let it hiss and spit, let it continue to terrorize him, let it curl about her ankles and glare when he is near, as if it intends to wear the mantle of her champion against him, it does not _matter_ —

Ah.

This—is not a territorial dispute.

It cannot _know_ , of course. But it can likely sense his guilt, the inner turmoil he grapples with whenever he is with her, tumultuous emotions that mark him as a possible threat. A threat _to her_. And he has never proven himself otherwise, at least not to the cat.

Solas has always considered animals to be far more intelligent than they are given credit for. It is a pity the same cannot be said of him in this situation.

“Where did you go?” Evelyn asks, amusement tinged with desperation urging him away from intrusive thoughts. “Come back.”

He turns his attention back to her, appalled that he could let it drift to something so small as a feud with a _cat,_ particularly a cat that only means to act in her interest, for that must be what it is. He is convinced now that he has unearthed the source of its loathing.

Fixing the problem—that can wait until later.

Much later.

“I’m here,” he says, pressing a delicate kiss to her lips as he takes her hand and guides it down to the plump folds between her thighs, the pressure of their combined touch against the swollen bud of her clit enough to make her moan helplessly into his mouth.

* * *

                                        

Solas waits until Evelyn departs for the day to attempt brokering peace with the animal that so clearly belongs to her, despite her claims to the contrary.

She is a shrewd woman, and not without insight, but in matters of devotion, particularly devotion to _her_ for any reason beyond practicality… She is utterly blind.

He wonders how she perceives his presence in her life. What she thinks he feels for her. If she realizes how utterly hers he truly is, or would be if only he could.

He has no right to wonder any of those things.

Her cat is sprawled on the balcony in a beam of sunlight, its tail drifting lazily back and forth. It looks up when he approaches and he sees it tense, but it makes no move to flee yet, which is as a good a sign as he is likely to get.

“Easy,” he says, holding his hands up in plain sight as he inches closer. “I ask only that you listen.”

It eyes him dubiously, tail swishing faster.

“We need not carry on like this, you and I,” Solas says, pausing his approach to let it calm. “I think I understand now, why you act as you do.”

It blinks.

“Your feelings are not unfounded,” he continues, perhaps the most candid admission he has made in—he cannot remember. “And I do not expect you to simply set them aside. In fact, it might surprise you to know that I appreciate your motives, because I love her too.“ He cannot help but feel the smallest bit ridiculous, baring the contents of his heart to a _cat_ , but is this truly so different to how he might approach a spirit in the Fade? “You may not believe that, given what you sense, but it is the truth.”

It rises slowly and cocks its head to the side, as if in consideration.

“What is it to be, then?” he asks, crouching down to extend his hand in a gesture of trust. “Peace? Or do we continue on as we have?”

It sniffs him, its nose a cold shock at the tips of his fingers.

“You needn’t decide today,” he assures it, keeping still as it glances up to study him, “or even tomorrow. Just—consider it. For her sake.”

For a moment, it simply stares at him.

And then it butts its head against his hand before it runs away.

* * *

                                

It takes a combination of time and scraps left over from meals throughout the day, but eventually they find a rhythm, he and this cat of hers. It is never overly affectionate, it does not go out of its way to greet him unless he offers food, but it will share space and even go so far as sleep on the bed when he is in it.

It is enough.

“You know, you keep saying it’s mine, but I think it’s actually yours,” Evelyn tells him, weeks after the accord was struck.

“How so?” Solas asks, glancing up from his book with a crease in his brow.

“You feed it,” she says, as if that explains her point entirely.

“And I have fed the horses we use when we are away from Skyhold,” he points out, unconvinced. “They are no more mine than they are Sera’s.”

“You haven’t seen it sulking outside your door, have you? I’ve never seen anything so sad as the look in its eyes.” She shoos the cat away from where it had lain at his side and sits down next to him in its place. “It’s like it thinks it can’t go in.”

“I may have—given it that impression,” he admits. “But that does not prove—“

The cat hops into Evelyn’s lap with a huff.

It does not stay there.

It crosses over into his and lays down, tucking its paws in beneath its black fur as its eyes drift shut.

Her eyebrows lift, a small smile pulling at her lips. “You were saying?”

He does not answer. He merely lifts his book once more, finds his place, and continues where he left off.


End file.
